The Secret of the Glass

by Morin, Donna Russo

  Donato sat forward.

  “Good King Henry has agreed to arbitrate?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “This is a good day, indeed.”

  Donato rose from his chair and crossed the large distance to the sideboard with a few wide strides. Crystal clinked against glass, liquid flowed from decanter to receptacle, and he carried the two drinks back to the desk. Handing one to Sarpi, he sipped at his own, leaning back against the front of his white stone desk.

  “And the Pope’s new ambassador? Is he taken care of?”

  “He is in ensconced in the palazzo at San Francesco della Vigna.” Sarpi nodded, licking a drop of the strong, sweet Malmsey from his thin bottom lip. “And our people are right beside him.”

  The homes on either side of the foreign ambassador’s new residence had been emptied of their regular occupants and populated by the government’s own provocateurs. Venice functioned as the epicenter of espionage; every surrounding nation established embassies, agencies, and trading centers within its boundaries serving as clandestine clearinghouses of secrets. As hostess, Venice used her every wile to spy on the spies.

  Sarpi lowered his head and his voice. “La cortigiana onesta will present herself this very evening.”

  Doge Donato smirked at his friend’s embarrassment—that a holy man should feel such shame in this discussion was no surprise. Sarpi was a forward, enlightened thinker, but not for the good of the state would he see these women as anything but sinners. Venetian courtesans were renowned throughout the world. Few knew, however, that many of an intellectual bent, such as la onesta, were under the employ of their government, using their considerable charms to spy on unwitting subjects all too susceptible to the talented women’s attentions.

  “Veronica?” Donato asked, needing nothing more to refer to Venice’s reigning courtesan and poet, as treasured for her blond beauty and physical abilities as for her mastery of language and imagery. La Serenissima had begun to wonder if some of the ladies in their employ were not playing both sides, selling what they knew to those for whom they were paid to spy upon, but Donato himself could vouch for la signorina Franco, guaranteed by his own familiar relationship with her.

  “Sì,” Sarpi assured him.

  “Bene, you have done your work well, father.” Donato threw back his head, the glass at his lips, and finished off his drink. “But there is still much left to do.”

  “I’m ready,” Sarpi intoned with vigor.

  “You always are, my devoted friend.”

  This simple man, the son of a struggling merchant from San Vito, and his unwavering dedication to his land, his mother’s birthplace, was a stalwart, unwavering guardian of Venice. His intensity fostered not only a staunch, almost fanatical following, particularly among the Venetian people, but an equally antagonistic fervor of hate against him. Many, those in Rome above all others, believed he served the needs of the Doge before that of the Savior.

  Doge Donato put down the small bowl-shaped glass and crossed his arms against his broad chest.

  “First, I need you to send yet another warning to the Jesuits…”

  Sarpi waited expectantly.

  “…fall in line or into the cage.”

  Donato stood resolute, heedless of Sarpi’s nakedly astonished reaction. Only the most wicked of priests were imprisoned in the iron cage and hung from the campanile, forced to live on no more than bread and water for weeks while exposed to the elements. To suggest such a repugnant punishment revealed just how deadly Donato’s intentions were.

  “Next, I wish to issue a letter to King Henry, humbly and gratefully accepting his offer as mediator. Be sure to send more than one copy and be sure at least one of them falls into our enemy’s hands.”

  Sarpi scribbled the instructions in his notebook with a slight grin of satisfaction.

  “And last, I need you to make sure you are wearing the gift I sent you.” Donato narrowed his dark eyes at the cleric. “You’re not wearing it now, are you?”

  “Your Honor,” Sarpi began, dropping his hands into his lap and shifting uncomfortably on the leather chair with a squeak. “I don’t feel it’s necessary—”

  “I do,” Donato barked, pointing a long accusatory finger at the cleric. “And after you send that missive to the Jesuits it will be that much more necessary.”

  The large man leaned over, arresting Sarpi’s attention with undenied authority.

  “I need you, Venice needs you, too desperately to take any chances.”

  Sarpi bowed his head in gratitude; he knew Donato’s conviction arose out of genuine concern for his welfare.

  “But I—”

  Three knocks upon the heavy, carved wooden door obliterated the rest of his words. The door opened without a call of permission and a page rushed in, a small roll of parchment in his outstretched hand.

  “Mi scusi, Your Honor, fra Sarpi.” The young man stopped before them and bowed. “But this message has just come from professore Galileo who said it was urgent that you receive it immediately.”

  “Grazie.” Donato accepted the letter, dismissing the servant with a nod.

  Returning to his seat, he unfurled the parchment, glance sliding back and forth across its surface. His eyes crinkled at the corners as a wide smile spread upon his large face.

  “It appears your friend has succeeded. He wishes to show us his new creation.”

  “When?” Sarpi asked with a quick, thankful glance to the heavens.

  “Early Tuesday morning.”

  Seventeen

  “Tell me again why we’re here?”

  Alfredo Landucci got off the barge just a few paces behind Teodoro Gradenigo, jumping nimbly off the end of the ramp, avoiding a small puddle left behind by the morning’s shower. The warm spring sun peeked through the breaking clouds, rays of light streamed down from holes in the fluffy, gray ceiling, and glistening water droplets coated the land like embedded jewels. The small island of Murano lay clean, scoured by nature’s brush, refreshed and sweet smelling.

  “To get my mother a birthday present.” Teodoro stood in the muddy campo and waited for his friend to catch up. “A glass swan, if I can find one.”

  Alfredo shook his head and his abundant blond curls danced around his smooth, comely features. “You couldn’t find one in La Mercerie?”

  Teodoro rolled his eyes and gave his friend a playful shove, pushing him in the direction of the Rio de Vetrai.

  “Did you look?” Alfredo asked with exasperation, stopping to flick a speck of mud from his saffron, ribbed-silk stockings. “Why are we wasting our time? It’s bad enough we’ve been locked away in chambers for hours and days on end. We finally have some time off and you want to spend it here? Shopping no less?”

  “Calm yourself,” Teodoro tutted, assuaging his childhood friend as he would a little boy. “I want…there is more selection if we go to the fabbrica itself.”

  Of the same age, these two had attended school together, played together on the calli and canals of San Barnaba. They’d been united in moments of learning, great accomplishment, and minor acts of mischief. Having come of age within months of each other, they served side by side as members on the Grand Council. Equals in their pride and loyalty to Il Serenissimo, Teodoro’s diligence to his duty, however, was not an attribute they shared.

  “But Cannelita is waiting for me.” Alfredo paused, scratching his head, his thin mustache curling as his mouth quirked into a smile. “At least I think it’s Cannelita, or is she for tomorrow?”

  Teodoro shook his head, his vexation denied by his tolerant grin. “I don’t understand how you can keep track of all your women. Or why you need so many.”

  “Ah, because they are there to be needed, paeseano,” Alfredo answered with a lecherous waggle of his pale brows.

  “What I can’t understand, is how you get them to be so…so accommodating. You are not that pretty.”

  Alfredo swept out his hand, flicking the back of Teodoro’s head in playful rebuff.
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  “Have I never explained my secret maneuver?”

  Teodoro raised a skeptical brow as he shook his head.

  “I tell them all that I am the youngest son of a poor Barnabotti, that I may never marry, and that my heart is riven, torn by the fact that I must live out my days alone, with no wife or child to love and care for me.”

  Teodoro stopped with cutting abruptness, leather-soled shoes sliding along the dusty buff stone fondamenta, turning to the rogue beside him with a skeptical, scathing look.

  “Sorry, my friend.” Alfredo shrugged, his innocent, helpless air contrary to his saucy smile. “Yours is a sad and pathetic story. It works every time.”

  “Do you ever tell them the truth, that you are the son of a poor Barnobotti, the oldest, and that you must marry?”

  “Good Lord, no.” Alfredo tossed back his head with a laugh. “My version is much more romantic.”

  Though he tried hard not to, Teodoro snorted with laughter.

  “Why doesn’t it work for me?”

  “Do you tell any women the truth?”

  “No, not usually.” Teodoro said. “Except for—”

  “Here’s one.” Alfredo pivoted to his right, striding purposefully to the first large display window filled with a vast array of shaped and colored glass, the pigments iridescent in the burgeoning sun. “I don’t see a swan, but perhaps there’s one inside.”

  “No, let’s keep going. It’s farther…” Teodoro faltered, stepping into a mud puddle, unmindful and unaware as the dirty water splashed up his leg. “There’s another just down the way I’d like to look in.”

  Alfredo jumped to avoid the earthy, moist muddle, long legs like Teodoro’s hurling him swiftly back to his friend’s side. He tugged his companion to a stop with a forceful hand on Teodoro’s arm.

  “What’s really going on?”

  Alfredo held steadfastly to Teodoro’s gray worsted sleeve. The men stood in the middle of the busy fondamenta, an island unto themselves in the sea of people bustling about, forced into separating to move around the rugged pair of men. Teodoro pouted sullenly, smooth-skinned forehead crinkled in confusion. His friend’s piercing green eyes narrowed, probing expectantly with unflinching, unwavering determination.

  “Do not try and deny it,” Alfredo warned, his other hand rising to point an accusing finger in the familiar face before him. “You haven’t been yourself in many a day.”

  Teodoro’s brows rose in sarcastic arches. “Who have I been?”

  Alfredo sneered at him.

  “Save your clever retorts for someone who would be fooled by them. Tell me what’s going on.”

  With a one-shoulder shrug of capitulation, Teodoro gave a nod and a tic of his head, pulling his friend by the arm along the walkway.

  “I…I have met someone…interesting.”

  “You have met someone? Someone who? When?” Alfredo’s voice rose to an incredulous pitch.

  Teodoro lowered his head, more bashful than embarrassed.

  “Her name is Sophia Fiolario. I met her the other night at the Palazzo Ducale.”

  “So that is why you went missing for so long. We looked everywhere for you.”

  Alfredo cuffed him on the back, chuckling with a ribald laugh. Teodoro shook his head and smiled shyly, a child caught in a naughty act. The two striking young men continued to traipse along the busy thoroughfare, oblivious to the women, young and old, who stared after them, heedless of the appreciative smiles beaming down upon them from the young giggling girls hanging over second-story, dowelled railings.

  “Sophia Fiolario. Sophia Fiolario.” Alfredo mumbled behind his hand, rubbing his mouth in thought. “I do not recognize the name.”

  “You wouldn’t. She’s not…” Teodoro remembered Sophia’s strident voice when she told him who she was, remembered the small jut of her chin. “She is a glassmaker’s daughter.”

  Alfredo’s step faltered, but he pressed on with a roll of his eyes and a scathing, dubious expression on his face.

  “What is the point in this, Teo? She is most certainly betrothed to a nobiluomo or she wouldn’t have been at the palace to begin with.”

  “I know…I know.” Teo’s mouth tightened.

  Dawning light flickered in Alfredo’s widening eyes. “Ah, perhaps you will use your sad story as I do and—”

  “No!” Teo snapped, his intense protest too telling by itself, his passion halting their progress yet again. “Um, yes, if…no, she’s not, she wouldn’t…” Teodoro’s voice drifted away, a flush splotching his tan cheeks.

  “Then what? You cannot marry her, what’s the point?” Alfredo snipped with impatience.

  Teo rubbed his forehead with a long hand, as if to clear his muddled mind.

  “I don’t know. I know only that I want to see, need to see her again. We appreciate great works of art though we may never own them, do we not?”

  “Is she that beautiful?”

  “Yes…no…I mean yes.” Teo sputtered again, gently shoving Alfredo’s shoulder at his friend’s disbelieving chortle. “It is more than just her beauty. She is so much more than that.”

  “Sì?” Alfredo swaggered along, pulling down on the edge of his doublet, flicking his hands down his chest as if chasing away lint. “Then perhaps I will marry her myself. If I must, she—”

  “No!” Teodoro’s bark was as sharp and hard as a blow of his hand.

  Alfredo snapped back as if struck. He gaped at his friend, Teo’s beleaguered yet ardent response erasing all jocularity from his elegant features.

  “I’m sorry, mi amico,” Alfredo said, voice low and somber. “I didn’t understand. I will tease you no more.”

  Teodoro nodded in relief, catching up with a few long strides. “Grazie.”

  A rapport exclusive to treasured friends settled upon them as they continued their journey down the busy fondamenta. They passed factory after factory, almost all glassworks, their cleverly designed placards hanging from black steel rods above large wooden doors that swayed, spurred by the breeze, rhythmic squeaking resounding with every backward and forward motion. Upon each carved and lacquered surface rose the name of the establishment, a picture representing it, and the name of the family who owned it. One in particular caught Teodoro’s attention. The picture of the fiery bird, painted bright red, captivated his imagination; its writing sparked a thought. Fenice, La Quirini Familia.

  He mulled the name over in his mind; he knew it, but from where he couldn’t quite grasp. When he remembered, a wave of sadness washed over him. This family had lost a son, his life coming to a violent end not so very long ago, violence perpetrated by their own government. The missives and duty passed on to him by two council members rushed back to his recollection. Savino Cicogna and Baptiste Loredan were no friends of his, no more than colleagues and of an older generation, but they had given him the dispatches knowing of his closeness to the Doge and his sympathy with their cause and that of the glassmakers.

  Teo stepped closer to the door, staring at the black wreath hanging from the rusty nail embedded in the painted evergreen door. Standing here, at the home of this young man, in truth no more than a boy, younger than Teodoro himself, made him so much more real, his death so much more tragic.

  “Is this it?” Alfredo stopped beside him, shielding his fair eyes from the sun with a hand to his brow, and peering into the large display window.

  “No.” Teo, turned from his morose thoughts, slapped his hand upon his friend’s broad shoulder, and hustled him back along the quay. “Just a little farther, I think.”

  Not far up ahead, the long, imposing sign of La Spada was hard to miss, as the metallic sheen of the painted sword sparkled in the sun. Teodoro squinted against the glare as it flashed in his eyes, sucking in a nervous breath. He faltered at the corner, at the intersection of the smaller calle that led to the factory’s entrance, questioning his own impetuous actions.

  “We’ve come this far.” Alfredo prodded him in the back, forceful and yet compassionat
e. “There’s no turning back now.”

  Teodoro marveled at how familiar he and Alfredo were with each other, offering a weak grin and an uncertain nod in response.

  “May I help you, signore?” The young, skinny boy rushed from his stool in the front corner and bowed before them. The two young cavaliers strained to hear him over the ruckus of so many hands and tools at work.

  Bright morning light streamed in the high windows, finding the blaze of each fornace as if it were the energy that lit the fires within. The dripping resin of the alder wood pinged onto the flames, releasing its tangy odor into the air.

  Teodoro opened his mouth, his lower jaw working uselessly. He could think of nothing to say. He had come hoping to see Sophia, had hoped to find her on the grounds of the factory as if waiting for him to arrive. It was a nonsensical fantasy but it had been with him for days. Now he felt little but disappointment. He could ask for her father but, as they were unacquainted, the meeting could prove awkward.

  Alfredo put a supportive hand on Teo’s shoulder.

  “My friend here would like a gift for his mother, a glass swan, and we’ve heard this is the best vetreria in all of Venice.”

  “Sì, sì.” Teo found his voice, offered a smile of thanks to Alfredo, and bobbed his head with enthusiasm, grateful for the lifeline and the return of his senses. “A swan, for my mamma.”

  Metal pans fell upon the stone floor with a horrendous clatter, their noise raucous and splitting, as if all the bells of San Marco cracked and tolled at once.

  “Porco mondo.”

  The female voice rent the ensuing quiet, distinctive with its feminine tone, surprising with its guttural curse.

  His voice, one so clear in her recollections, sent Sophia spinning to the sound, her flailing hand knocking the metal sheets to the floor. She bent, reaching out clumsily, trying to pick them all up at once, trapping them against her body, her arms contorting gracelessly. She leaned forward and dropped them back onto the scagno, creating yet another banging barrage of bombilation. Her hands flapped against them, slapping them to stillness, feeling as silly as she knew she must appear.